


Secrets on Our Lips

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Series: The Hell-Raising Chronicles of the Trenchcoat Brigade [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, bruises as a metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a realization, and the words “I love you” are rather conspicuously absent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets on Our Lips

> _{I know they say it’s over, we can’t go on like this_   
> _The moonlight makes us ardent and the sun returns our sense_   
> _But we ain’t much for orders, we can’t go on like this_   
> _But we can live forever with secrets on our lips}_
> 
> _—Astronautalis, “secrets on our lips”_

 

So the shift ran late, so it’s eleven thirty, so there are no buses, so Feuilly is walking home, through the park,  and it’s the middle of the night, almost, so he really isn’t, not at  _all_ , expecting to see… _that_.

It’s transparent.

It’s fucking—

It is  _transparent_ ,  all thin white cotton with slick with a wet shimmer where the fabric peaks, and everywhere else, all the patches where it’s plastered to his chest, Bahorel’s shirt is completely transparent.

And the worst part is that that’s not even the worst part, not the shirt or the wet denim clinging to his thighs and bleeding dye down onto Bahorel’s bare feet, or the water beading down his jaw onto his neck, the  _worst_  part is that as he jogs up, Bahorel is  _smiling_.

And it doesn’t make sense, because Bahorel spends his whole life smiling, grinning through bloody teeth, grinning to warn, threaten, grinning  over his shoulder at Grantaire, because he and Jehan have _plans,_  grinning because it’s 3 in the morning, and Feuilly’s asleep on the couch again, and he’s about to turn on the lights and force him up. But this…

isn’t any of that, this is Bahorel  _smiling_ , like he’s all of eleven years old, bright and beaming, and carnival-lights-on-Christmas-morning  _smiling_  while the water slips over the bridge of his nose.

Feuilly’s mouth works soundlessly, groping for a word that never comes. He sighs and jams both hands deeper into his pockets. “What the  _fuck_ ,” he huffs, “did you even  _do_?”

“Sprinklers!” Bahorel beams, scrubbing a hand through his dripping hair like it’s nothing, like grown-ass men routinely run through park sprinklers at half-an-hour to midnight, like it’s even remotely remotely okay for him to be laughing and  _smiling_  like he is.

“ _God_ ,” Feuilly breathes “Who let you be an adult?”

“Fuck you.” Bahorel laughs. Feuilly watches him slide one hand under his shirt to peel it away from his skin out of the corner of his eye because he  _refuses_  to be caught staring. His lighter flicks, once, twice, stuttering in his hand before the flame catches. Feuilly inhales sharply, sucking hard on the end of his cigarette until it glows, and glaring through the smoke as Bahorel stretches, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck with a pornographic “ _mmph”._

“You are fucking ridiculous.”

And Bahorel laughs again, falling in step with him, hair dripping, shoes slung over his shoulder.

So it’s eleven thirty, so they’re walking home, through the park, and Bahorel is close enough that Feuilly can feel the damp heat rolling off his skin, and they’re not holding hands, really, just that the bony knob of his wrist knocks against Bahorel’s, and Bahorel’s swollen knuckles, patched with half-healed cuts and a peeling bandage, brush the back of Feuilly’s hand, and every three, four steps, Bahorel nudges him with his elbow, and Feuilly turns his head and blows  _out_ , and Bahorel pushes his chin forward into the smoke and breathes  _in_  with a low hum. They’re not holding hands, just that Feuilly drops his head sideways, pressing his temple to Bahorel’s shoulder when the exhaustion rolls over him in a sudden crash, and Bahorel curls his heavy hand over the top of Feuilly’s head for just a minute.

Something clenches in his stomach, and Feuilly stops.

This is easy. This is too easy, it just…happened, without trying, without reaching and fighting and taking, it just  _happened_ , just like that, and it was so  _easy_.

But they’re not supposed to be. Easy is not something that happens to him, easy is 7 inches shorter the man beside him, but not caring, and having no context, no way to frame knocking wrists and casual obscenities that sting  _just_  right, and fighting all the time, but not  _needing_  to fight for anything, because it’s all already there. His cigarette is scorching his fingers, and Feuilly lets it, because things are not supposed to be easy, they’ve never been easy, and his fingertips throb as he looks up at Bahorel.  

His shirt is transparent, still, tattoos and the dark shadow of his nipples, brown like old pennies and peaking in the cold, showing plainly through the fabric, and he is still  _smiling_  and Feuilly drops his cigarette backing him up against the nearest tree with a strangled growl.

“God, I am going to  _kill_  you for this!” and Feuilly doesn’t know anymore what “this” is, only that Bahorel’s skin is cold and damp and thin where it’s stretched over his collarbone, and Bahorel makes this  _noise_ , a sudden breath out that punches up from his chest as Feuilly lowers his mouth and bites down. It’s barely audible, and the only thing, the only thing in the world Feuilly wants is to hear it again. He drags Bahorel’s (stupid,  _transparent_ ) shirt up, hooking his fingers so that the edges of his fingernails drag ragged tracks all the way up Bahorel’s heaving ribs. This is not happening. This is not him, he is not grinding chapped knuckles and the heels of his hands into Bahorel’s sides until he can feel ribs start to buckle, he is not pressing his thumbs into Bahorel’s hips so hard his whole hand aches, Feuilly is  _not_  scraping his teeth over the swell of muscle between Bahorel’s neck and his shoulder, doing his level best to leave bruises while his cigarette smolders forgotten in dirt because it would never,  _never_  be this easy.

Bahorel fists his hands in Feuilly’s belt-loops, trying to jerk him closer. Feuilly wraps his fingers around Bahorel’s wrist and squeezes until he feels his own bones creaking in his palm, and Bahorel’s skin turns pale. “Don’t  _even_ ”  he growls, and he pins Bahorel’s hand to the rough bark, up by his ear.

It’s just that it’s so  _easy_  to scrape down, dragging his nails down to Bahorel’s elbow, then dip his head and worry the the skin of Bahorel’s wrist between his teeth, and to dart back up, breathing hard, so that their lips are  _just_ , just barely touching.

It’s not anything like a kiss, really.

It is an attempt, his very best, to bite Bahorel’s lips until they  _bleed_ , just to stop him smiling, it is Feuilly swallowing every gasp and gasping them back into Bahorel’s mouth when he curls his hand over the back of Feuilly’s neck and presses  _hard_  into the small of Feuilly’s back with his other hand, palm flat against Feuilly’s spine, so big his fingertips can just brush against Feuilly’s hip on the other side.

It is a shove, Feuilly  _pushing_  Bahorel back so the back of his skull knocks against the tree, and stepping back, hissing “Who the  _fuck_  runs through the park sprinklers at eleven thirty at night?”

Bahorel tips his chin up, panting, tonguing at his split lip and laughs. “Fuck you.”

It’s not a quite a snort and not quite a sigh, but it pushes up through Feuilly’s lips anyway, a short “tch” as he’s shaking his head and raking a hand through his hair, not,  _not_  looking at Bahorel’s swollen mouth or the pulse jumping in his throat. “You’re a fucking  _moron._ ” He says flatly. Feuilly turns, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m going home.”

And the next  thing out of his mouth is “ _Really?”_ , eyebrows up, arched in disbelief bordering on outrage as Bahorel’s wadded-up shirt  _slaps_  wetly against his back, and Bahorel is  _laughing_  again, grinning a mile wide and strutting forward with his arms flung out. So it’s midnight, or close to, and the whole walk home is one long, drawn-out fight. It happens in pieces;  Feuilly throws back the shirt, so the sleeves tangle around Bahorel’s neck, and snaps an elbow into his ribs two blocks down, and Bahorel _gasps_  as the air leaves his lungs in a thin white cloud. And it looks like smoke, frosting in the air, so Feuilly fishes another cigarette out of his pocket, lights, inhales..

And  after three, four breaths, Bahorel swats it from his fingers, one bare arm flashing out, dark and amber from the streetlights and red from the nail-tracks and the beginnings of bruises and mottled blue from the ends of the same. And those…are too dark to be from earlier, but Feuilly pushes the thought away, and glares as Bahorel exhales softly,   _smiling_  around his stolen cigarette. One more block and Feuilly  steals it back. It still tastes like him, like the heavy salt-taste of Bahorel’s mouth, lingering on the edges. He ignores it.

Tries, anyway.  

Bahorel slides a hand up his back and pulls his hair at a stoplight. Feuilly pins him against their door and pulls harder, winding his fingers through Bahorel’s hair and —

—falls, as the door opens, sending him sprawling, collapsed on top of Bahorel and shaking with every shuddering peal of laughter bubbling up from Bahorel underneath him, triumphantly clutching a key in his fist. “ _Suck_  it!” He gasps, and Feuilly pushes himself up and scoffs.

“You are a  _child_.”

But the practicalities creep in, like they do; 8 am shifts and the knot in Feuilly’s shoulder and the ache wrapped in and around the bones of his legs. He falls, dropping onto the couch with his head suddenly too heavy to hold up. Feuilly closes his eyes.

“Got to  _bed_ , dipshit. You’re gonna fall asleep on the couch again.”

“”I’m  _fine._ ” Feuilly murmurs vaguely, drawing his knees to his chest. “Asshole.” He folds one arm over his eyes, and it’s only for a minute, only until he can get up again. “I hope you get fucking _pneumonia._ ”

“Nah,” he hears, fuzzy and far away, “You love me.”

Behind closed eyes, everything is gauzy, out of focus and it’s hard to think through the cotton fog of it, but Feuilly thinks  _there were already bruises on his arms_  and thinks that they were in the shape of fingers, and that the finger-shapes were  _his_ , and the only way they could’ve stayed there so long is if Bahorel had been  _trying_  to keep them there…

Bahorel snorts softly, tucking Feuilly’s dangling left arm under his chin and dragging a blanket up over his chest. His wrists throb, the skin already turning dark, discolored. Bahorel presses his fingers into a forming bruise with a hiss, willing it to turn darker, stay longer,  _stay_.

And in the morning, which is grey and gritty and brittle with watery sun that can’t  _quite_  break through the clouds, Feuilly wakes up to black coffee, already made, and Bahorel, black and blue on the floor by his feet. “You dumbass” he breathes. Bahorel yawns, blinking, and turns his face into Feuilly’s hand.

“Shitting _Christ_ , you wake up early. Why the  _fuck_  are you up this early?”

“There’s coffee.”

Bahorel sniffs, slumping back against the couch. “…Nah, it’s dark. Sort of dark. Dark enough. You can’t be fucking cryptic when it’s dark.”

“There’s coffee.” Feuilly repeats. “So  _someone_  had to make it. You…”

And Bahorel opens his eyes and he almost  _smiles_ , looking up at Feuilly. “It’s a fucking Christmas miracle. Anyway. Don’t you have a train to catch, dickhead?” The couch  _creaks_  as he hauls himself up, falling heavily down on the cushions in a loose-limbed sprawl. “Go be responsible. ‘M going back to sleep.” He closes his eyes.

One arm drifts up, hooked over the back of the couch,  mottled red and blue and —

_white_ , dusted with freckles, as Feuilly’s fingers find the edge of Bahorel’s wrist and press down. His breath hitches  _in_ , sharply, then  _out_  with a soft, low hum.

Feuilly smiles.


End file.
